


Cold hands held tight.

by Mishka10



Category: Charité | Charité at War (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Martin's POV, Mentions of War, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27573500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "He finds it much harder to dream, but sometimes he thinks Otto does it enough for the both of them."Martin reflects on his situation and the way of the world while going about his day to day life,Set sometime between Ep 5 and 6.
Relationships: Otto Marquardt/Martin Schelling
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Cold hands held tight.

His hands, he found, were more often than not cold, now days. Despite the warmth of the season, despite the warmth of the rooms. The sweat that seems to stick to the rest of him. To all the rest of them. Every nurse and doctor alike shared in it, that coating of a thin layer of sweat and grime, and, at times, blood and pus and god knows what else.

It was hardly surprising, given the conditions, so many people, so little space, so few resources… and such long hours.

No, it should be no surprise that the sweat stuck to him, to all of them. Gods only know how often one could find the space to bathe, to tug away the time for such a luxury. When there were men dying. When children screamed for aid and the bodies continued to pile up.

He is used to the sweat. The way it was slick on his skin, soaking into clothing, gluing the cloth to his body. The way it mixes with the dirt and the dust that seemed to permeate the air these days, thick and choking in their own right.

It had become a constant. Just another unavoidable fact of life.

And yet, despite the sweat dripping from his brow, somehow his hands seemed to remain cold. Chilled fingertips, still icy, despite the heat.

But that was not the worst of it. He could live with the seemingly permanent chill, it was not enough to hurt, bother or bite. If anything, cool fingers felt kind against a hot and beating brow.

No what worried him was the tremor.

It was faint. So thankfully faint.

Only a slight thing, only just enough for him to notice it, and not all the time. Occasional. Small and slight. Decidedly not enough to be noticed by any outside eye. ~~Or at least he hoped as much.~~

But he noticed it, he _felt_ it.

Tidying away a blanket, cloth folded over on itself, he feels it in his wrist, the faintest of tremors, hand shaking, if only just. Reaching for a bottle, hand closed around the glass, not yet lifted yet, but noting the slight shake, the tap of glass on wood, hand moving ever so slightly out of his control.

He tries not to let it bother him.

Not to worry him.

It is nothing to worry about. Just stress. Exhaustion. The uncomfortable marriage of the two, settled deep in his bones as it is. The constant weight of it, pressing in from a spot just behind his eyes. Just another pain he can’t seem to escape.

But sometimes he can’t help but worry about it.

Can’t stop his mind from focusing in on the press of cold fingertips against his palms. Can’t help but worry if someone will ever notice the shake, if it will ever grow, become enough to be an issue, enough to affect his work.

The thoughts hold no real threat in his mind, no real danger behind them, but that does nothing to stop him from focusing on it.

Perhaps it is easier that way. Easier to focus on cold fingertips and a wavering hand then the list of other worries trying to press into his mind.

Trying not to think about the bombs and fire and death. About the man and the child hidden away above him, the dangerous fragility of their situation. One wrong moment, a badly placed explosion, bomb landed in an unlucky spot, an untrustworthy nurse poking around where they shouldn’t…

Either way the outcome would be the same. Two more corpses to add to the pile.

It is certainly simpler, if not better, to focus on cold hands rather then let his mind drift to such things, as determined as the thoughts often were to wind their way back into his mind.

He tried to busy his cold hands as best he can to counter it. Keep himself busy, cold hands still perfectly capable of completing his tasks, and gods were there plenty of tasks to keep busy with. Plenty of patients, streaming in as they did, keeping the beds full no matter how fast they worked.

If anything, the exhaustion helped as well, kept his mind blank. Collapse heavy on his bed at night, too tired to worry, too tired to think much about anything, other than possibly about the tremor in his wrist. 

There were moments, of course, when he managed to slip away from the work. The moments between disaster, one lot of patients finally cleared out, or simply fallen asleep, exhaustion finally overtaken them, the next ones not quite there yet.

Those rare quiet pauses between the death and destruction, in which he could sneak away, scramble up the simple wooden ladder. It is an uncomfortably ungraceful climb, with only one good leg, cold fingers digging into the wood to keep him stable.

The wood rough against his hands, skin tough enough from his work not to be that irritated. He focuses on it, the scratch of it, the wood as cold as his skin. It distracts him, from thinking about what he may find at the top, the terrifying slim possibility that this may be the time. The time he rounds the corner, into the loft, to find it empty. No familiar faces there to welcome him back.

He tugs himself up, into the loft, and takes a moment just to breathe. Stuck the air into his lungs, feel the sweat begin to cool on his brow.

Sometimes he can already hear one of them from there, hear Karin’s soft cooing, or Otto prattling on at the child, as though she had any chance of understanding even a word of it. It calms his heart; the moment straining ears pick out the soft sounds.

Stops the panic he hadn’t even realised had been there. The bloody beating in his chest he has leant to ignore, to write off as stress and adrenaline, the panic he hadn’t noticed being pumped around his body, rich in his blood.

And yet still, no matter what, it is like a sigh of relief each time he rounds the corner, and lays his eyes on the man, be it settled on a beam, bouncing Karin on his knee, spread out lazily on the mattress, or peeking through that bloody window he was so keen on risking his life to look out.

Somehow the relief is still just as great as the first time. His chest heaves each time. Settles down heavy, the air hitting his lungs properly for what feels like the first time in centuries.

It is as though everything shifts ever so slightly around him. As though the world lifts up, and resettles itself, the same, but ever so slightly different, better somehow. Right, in a way it wasn’t just moments before. 

He can never stop the smile that paints his face, the comfortable relief at the sight, at the sound of Otto’s laugh, somehow so light and airy, no matter the day. They trade pleasant greetings, words bright in his ears.

It feels warm, the words, the simple exchange, even a quiet ‘hello’ is enough to settle in his chest, soft and comfortable, warm in such a gentle way, heat radiating out through rushing blood, enough to even reach frozen fingers.

They often chat for a while; share whatever little food he had managed to scrounge up for them. Otto likes to dream about the future, the possibilities trapped up in what’s to come. In the _after_. After the war, after the death, and the pain.

Otto always has such dreams, perhaps, he thinks, that is all the man does all day, locked away in that room, Otto cares for the child and he dreams.

He finds it much harder to dream, but sometimes he thinks Otto does it enough for the both of them.

But eventually even Otto runs out of dreams to recount, not that either of them mind. At some point in their chats, they have inevitably shifted closer together, arms knocking together, a head resting on the others shoulder. They often like then, to just sit for a breath, enjoying the quiet stillness, the feeling of each other’s touch.

They sit, letting themselves just exist for a moment, exist somewhere safe, free from the beating pressures of the rest of the world.

At some point, in the stillness, he almost always finds a hand has curled around one of his own, fingers linked together, pressing in close, holding it tight.

The chill never seems to bother Otto, no matter how cold his hands are.

Not that they ever stay cold long, when wrapped up tight in the others grip, warming it in a way nothing else ever seems able to.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I feel a bit late to the party, but hopefully can still join this like... 5 person sized fandom. I can offer... poetic ramblings and softness? that's generally about it.


End file.
